Quid Pro Quo
by Flint and Feather
Summary: Vincent takes a lone rebellious night time tour of the city to escape his smothering life in the Tunnels. But his time out is cut short when he's forced to return home to cope with injury.


**A/N: A one-shot indulgence...Vincent takes an impulsive, lone respite from his smothering life in the Tunnels, and finds no peace in the city shadows. All named characters are owned solely by originator Ron Koslow. Many thanks to reviewers of my previous 'Beauty and the Beast' stories. **

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Vincent hurriedly passed him by, with a seeming intent to escape Father's concerned scrutiny as he swept aside the edge of the tapestry covering his doorway, and disappeared behind its concealment into his chamber. As quickly as his cane could take him, Father limped the short distance after him and halted outside, worriedly clearing his throat.

"Vincent, is there something wrong?"

"No, nothing, Dr. Wells." Vincent's usual soft, level voice had taken on an abrupt edge as he inexplicably addressed the anxious man by his professional title.

"Then – I-I'll leave you, Son," Father stammered, not at all comforted by Vincent's unaccustomed reply.

Try as he might, Father was unable to rest. Vincent had given him no prior reason for going Above, though the man then on watch had reported his exit back to him. Whatever had triggered Vincent's irritability worried Father, as did any perceptible change in his normally placid temperament. Again, he feared a regression; his son's surrender to the inner darkness of his psyche. Such a dread mystery as that could be, held troubling vigil over Father's mind.

**. . . **

When that night had earlier fallen, Vincent's frustration had peaked at having his every move followed and questioned by Father; at feeling unbearably plagued by community individuals routinely placing their every need and want squarely upon his shoulders. Someone was constantly asking after his state of mind in solicitous excess, should he be seen to do no more than lower his eyes for more than a few heartbeats, or appear to be too deep in thought. Vincent knew that none of this was going to change as long as he remained the alpha protector of all. And that duty, he would continue to carry out as long as he was needed.

But now this, he wished to attend to on his own in the solitude of his room, without being admonished and lectured. True, he'd made his rebellious retreat to the city outside, and had hoped to return without being seen. Vincent chafed at the small misfortune that had forced him back so soon. Crossing through a blind alley, he had needed to move with unavoidable haste to hide from a gang of boisterous drunks ambling toward him. There was nothing at close hand but an overflowing, lidless garbage dumpster set at the base of the building's wall. He had first thrown the bulk of his cloak down between them, then put his back to the brick wall, and gripping the top edge of the dumpster, forced his body sideways into the too narrow space. Exhaling the breath from his lungs gave him a precious inch, but this scant advantage couldn't stop a jagged point of iron from piercing through his quilted vest as his strength defeated the friction of the wall. He felt the tearing across of his flesh, and tightly held his silence until he was again alone in the alleyway. Soundlessly then, he had pushed the hugely heavy, stinking structure a little away from his chest, and struggled painfully to free himself.

He had sprinted back home to the Tunnels, and could not avoid the notice of the friend on night watch. The man made friendly inquiry into his outdoor activities and whereabouts as expected, but Vincent gave him merely a pleasant nod and made his lone way first to the hospital chamber to collect the supplies he needed. Wanting no curious attention, Vincent concealed all beneath his cloak and proceeded at a stealthy stride towards his own room.

The sentinel of Father – Vincent had wanted only to dismiss him, too. As he set down a brown bottle and white wrapped packages on his table, he gave thought to another slight possibility. Father would hopefully know better than to call upon Catherine at this time of night. He dropped his cloak and took in hand a fuelled lamp and matches. Before a large mirror, he placed the lamp on an upper shelf, lit the canvas wick and turned up the flame. Staring at his dishevelled reflection, he pulled down the shoulders of his slashed vest and threw aside the bloodied garment. He next worked the lacing loose at the front of his shirt until, seized with a burst of impatience, he ripped the fabric violently apart and tore the ruin from his body. Naked to the waist, he calmly regarded his damage. The gash across his tautly muscled pectoral lay open and throbbing, now freshly dripping blood from his late explosive exertion. Tonight's badge of stolen freedom – one that would mark him forever. He shoved back the sides of his long mane and stooped over a basin to soak a compress and splash his hands with disinfectant. His cleft lip lifted to bare his perfect fangs as he pressed the stinging liquid deeply into the wound and scoured through his raw flesh until every flake of iron rust was cleaned out. His breath shuddered slightly as he studied the angry looking slash under the damp golden down of his chest.

He turned to pick up a syringe he'd prepared and stabbed the needle into his upper arm. With the tetanus injection done, Vincent opened a sterile package and laid out the implements for the next operation. His working light was bright enough, and he had the advantage of being able to use both hands. He cut hairs away from the wound's ragged edges and set himself to continue. He knew what to do, but performing this on himself was an untried skill. Picking up a suturing needle, he used the tips of his claws to pinch together the edges of his torn flesh and drove the curved needle through. With the needle pinched firmly in a holder, he drew it out and tied several square knots to finish the first stitch. Through a haze of pain, he scissored off the end. Still, he was all present, his teeth clenched as he made the needle point bite in again. His deep blue eyes focused down on the motions of his fingers as he went on across the length of the wound, his actions became mechanical; each sharp stab nothing more than a count toward the end.

Vincent blocked an interfering distraction – Catherine's distress for him, pleading through their bond. He couldn't answer now. Even Father had allowed him this uninterrupted self-absorption, no matter that it was so highly unpleasant. He raised his face again to the mirror, holding himself straight, and discerned that his efforts were well spaced and strong, but his lack of technique would result in inches of a raised, rope-like scar. Again, no matter. He swabbed it with iodine and opened envelopes of bandages.

**. . .**

Father, looking careworn at his desk, lifted his head at the sound of an approach as Vincent walked up to his side. The elder braced one hand on the desk top and pressed the end of his cane to the floor.

"Father, you need not stand."

"Have you slept, Vincent?" Father asked, with a worriedly appraising frown. "You have a rather strained appearance this morning."

"And you," his son reciprocated kindly. "No, I haven't slept. I was enjoying a private sulk."

Father studied Vincent quizzically. "And, what am I to understand?"

"First, I apologize, as I'm the reason for your own lack of sleep. Second, please imagine what it's like to be treated perpetually as a child who needs constant oversight."

Father sat back in his chair, musing thoughtfully. "I do suppose that I've never stopped doing that to you. But you called me Dr. Wells!"

"A very small, yet very respectful tantrum. Do you object?"

"Hardly, since you've explained. I will try to reign in my overprotective instincts for my grown son, if you'll in turn exercise certain considerations for my concern."

"Tomorrow," Vincent smiled, "I will want to see you in your capacity of physician."

"Of – of course. But why? And where are you going, now? You've had no rest-"

Vincent interrupted the outpouring of questions with a raised hand and warm gaze.

"I go now to Catherine, Father, to set her mind at ease. Don't wait up."


End file.
